Greg stared at the person in the cloak, trying to figure out what was going on. The voice sounded like a woman, but it was old and had the weight of experience and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Greg said carefully, "I don't get what you mean," and backed away because of his suspicion. "Who are these people anyway? And what have I even done apart from making tools that are peaceful?"
The person reached up with worn hands and slowly pulled back the hood. Underneath was an old woman with sharp, calculating eyes.
Her face showed her age, but her eyes were sharp and alert, the kind that saw everything. She had a tight bun in her gray hair, and she wore expensive clothes under the cloak, even though they were worn from travel.
"You may call me Agatha Crowbane, and you're honored to know it right now," the woman said, and her smile didn't reach her eyes. "You, Greg Greyson, are the kind of naive idealist that this world chews up and spits out."
